


Jyn Got A Gun

by rainbowagnes



Series: Historical AUs [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: 1880's, Alternate Universe - Western, Gen, Outlaws, TW Hanging, TW memory loss/dementia, Vigilante Justice, Vignettes, Wild West, saw is based on Bass Reeves, that's what started all this, vaguely lone ranger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-06 07:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11031696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowagnes/pseuds/rainbowagnes
Summary: When Jyn Erso is rescued from her own hanging by rogue Mexican lawman Cassian Andor, she can't possibly imagine the journey before her. She'll have to face innumerable dangers, shootouts, love, reconciliation with her estranged father, and a chance to get the revenge she's sworn on the robber baron who took her family all those years ago. It's a quest that might kill her, but it just might make a hero out of her first.





	1. Interrupting a Perfectly Good Execution

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write a wild west AU based on some ideas I had (mainly Saw Gerrera as Bass Reeves because HELL YEAH) but didn't have the energy to think of a cohesive plot. So this is what you get instead- a series of vaguely related snip its. Have fun!
> 
> This chapter's theme song (AKA the song I listened to on repeat whilst writing it) is "If I Die Young" by The Band Perry.

Missouri, 1881 

Jyn Erso has run out of friends. 

Not that she ever had many to begin with, but she's never felt as alone as she does right now. Hands tied, a rope around her neck, and all her earthly possessions save the simplest of clothes stripped from her body and left for the minister's wife to pick over. She's managed to keep the necklace, though she already knows that the doctor's daughters both have their eyes on it and will quite literally be fighting for it over her dead body. 

In front of her are more people in one place than she's seen in months. Ironic, maybe, that she only feels lonely when she's surrounded by people, but now it cuts like a knife. When she looks out at the sea of dust-greying faces she doesn't see sympathy, or empathy, or an inkling of the idea that it could just as well be one of them waiting for judgement on a hanging block. 

She curses herself, because now is not the time for loneliness. Now is the time for the kind of fear that makes her shake, that sharpens her mind and her body to a knifepoint. Now is the time for the adrenaline that will save her, that will take her far, far away from this place. 

She has been haunted all her life by fear, and the moment she needs it it won't come. 

Instead she feels empty. The world has already used her up, and if this is to be her fate, Jyn has resigned herself to the fact that there are far worse was to die. This will be painful and it will be humiliating, but it will all be over fast.

The hangman who is also the town barber and the blood-letter and the preacher when Paster MacCreedy is too whiskey-drunk to be of much use to anyone steps forward. He has a battered sheet of paper and a reedy voice when he reads her list of crimes. 

"Liana Halick. Forgery of US government documents, possession of stolen property, resisting arrest. And guilty of treason against the United States of America." 

Out here there is no court, or at least no court that matters. Her trial was in the back of saloon. It was over by supper and she was guilty. And now she pays the price. 

"Does anyone object to Miss Halick's rightful hanging?" 

No one does. Jyn's eyes scan the crowd again. Most of the women have been left at home and Jyn realizes that once again her survival has been left up the to unkindness of men. They have hard faces and deep lined eyes, and whatever entertainment value they may be gleaning from her execution is quickly being negated by the pressing need to get home and feed the cattle. 

There's only one man she doesn't on some level recognize, and Jyn realizes she's never seen him before. He has a wide brimmed hat and his face is tilted down so she can't see it, but he's got his hands hidden in the folds of a loose, striped garment that she's only ever seen on itinerant cow herds. Mexican, probably, but if that's true he's a damn long way from the border. 

"Any last words?"

Yes, actually, but now the time has come she can't think of any. She certainly can't think of enough ways to tell the good citizens of Jackuville, Missouri, to go fuck themselves. 

"The West is dead." 

She steps up onto the box. 

"The West is dead. We came and we killed her people. We killed the land and everything on it. On and on and on. Until we die or the land is spent." 

The brim of the stranger's hat lifts slowly to look at her. He has a face that looks both young and ancient, hard-lined and weathered. But what catches her are his eyes, narrow and tired, and that when they look at her, she can see something in them that almost looks like sorrow. Like empathy or pain, like he hasn't come to laugh over her death. 

What a strange thing to notice before you die- the eyes of a stranger. 

"I'm just glad I'll be gone before that happens." 

The hangman walks closer and tightens the noose. His fingers fumble and catch roughly at her throat. She tips her head back defiantly as if to challenge the sky, the wind, God, for putting her in this place. 

He kicks the wooden block under her boots and then suddenly 

everything 

ends 

it's in that last moment before she blacks out that Jyn realizes how much she doesn't want to die. How much she wants to jump naked into a frozen river, eat pie and down whiskey. Watch fire, dance a reel, shoot a gun and feel the adrenaline course through her body like the finest spirits. Pick flowers, feel the wind, fight a man. 

See the ocean again and feel it's salt spray against her lips. Cross the ocean and go home. Stand on the wild, wind-swept Danish coast that she hand't wanted to leave all those years ago. 

Find Da. 

She hasn't lived a lot of life and it sure as hell hasn't been kind to her, but damn she doesn't actually want it all to end with so much left undone. Not with her head slapped back in a noose in her throat constricting, drowning itself in it's own saliva as it struggles for air it can't find. 

It's in her last half second of lucidity before everything goes dark that she sees a gun flash. 

The stranger. 

It's pointed at her before any one can react, and the only thing Jyn can think of is- What did I do to fuck you over so much you find me all the way out here? 

And then- Pull the trigger, bastard. End it now.

He does.

A shot rings out, and the next thing she knows she's dropping, falling flat on a splintering wooden platform. Her entire body rings with dull fire from the impact, but she's alive. 

Her spinning head makes out singed end of the rope above her. Why'd he save her life? She hasn't done anyone any favors, isn't owed anything by this kind of a person.

The stranger runs, vaulting onto the stage and pistol whipping the hangman so that he falls sideways. To be thorough, the stranger also rams the end of a rifle into his stomach, knocking him out for good. 

"I object," he says, so softly even Jyn barely hears it. He reaches out a hand and helps to pull her to her feet.

"A little late for that, aren't you?" Talking is a mistake, and now she has to lean sideways to grab at the pole.

"Can you run?' 

She nodds, even as the world spins. His eyes are up close now, a thin, bitter brown that reminds her of coffee. What a pointless thing to notice.

"I left my horse on the outskirts of town. We can be out of here in ten minutes." 

She doesn't have a great deal of choice but to follow, so she nodes again. She can feel that her throat and chin are sticky with saliva, but the only thing she cares about is breathing, lungful after lungful of sweet, sweet air. 

He helps her down off the back of the platform, and then they're making their way back through Jackuville. She can't run, not really, and with every step they stir up fine, powdered dust that only serves to clog up her airways more. She's expecting an angry mob and a mad chase across the prairie, but when she looks back the town is exactly as it is. A small crowd of men who stand like trees in the dust. They didn't care much about her life, but they don't seem to care much about her death either. 

At least they got a show. 

She knows she's ignoring everything Saw ever taught her to get on a horse with a strange, foreign man and let him lead her out into the prairie, but as she watches town disappear into the drought-stricken brown of the prairie, Jyn feels freer than she has in years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked up pretty much every historical detail except the mechanics of shooting down a noose with a gun. It is possible, but just barely, and you probably need a rifle and a lot more time to do it. Ah well. 
> 
> I actually have most of the next chapter written, so it should be up in a few days.


	2. She burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was my general observation that Jyn didn't have the giant blue scarf until Scarif, so Cassian probably gave it to her.
> 
> The second half of this chapter was written to "Afire Love" by Ed Sheeran and "Alabanza" from In the Heights.
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE- I am not Mexican, live in an area with very few Latinx people, and have been very lucky to have little experience with funerals. IF YOU SEE ANY MISTAKES PLEASE CALL ME OUT. Please. Begging you. 
> 
> I couldn't find much information about the funeral proper online, with most scholarly interest being focused on Dio Los Muertos. (With is probably going to make an appearance later on.) But photos online made it look like funerals were outside? Or at least they were praying novenas outside??

They're about ready to ride out of El Paso when he tosses her a package. 

"Got this for you."

She carefully undoes the thin brown paper. Inside is a a dark blue piece of fabric. When she unfolds it she finds that it's a massive scarf almost as long as she is tall, soft and silk under her fingers. Dark blue, with several shades of lighter blue designs woven in. There's something about the ikats and geometric flowers that almost remind her of the patterns of home, the Old World home she barely remembers, of the diamond patterns on Mor's rug in their little cabin in Jutland. 

The ends of it have a long fringe. When she wraps the scarf around her neck- it has another name, a Mexican name, but she can't remember what it is- it easily covers her holster and revolver. 

It's not a cheap gift, she knows that, feeling the sleek newness and fine craftsmanship of the fabric. But it is without a doubt the nicest thing some one's given her in a decade. 

"Thank you kindly," she says, but it's a phrase that she's so often misappropriated for sarcasm that it rings hollow from her mouth. She curses herself and the English language. Whenever it came time to actually thank some one, "Thank you" never feels like enough.

"You burn," he says by way of explanation for getting her something so nice.

She wants to say more, but her throat won't let her. It almost feels like she's choking. 

So instead she nods and ties the fabric around her face so that only her eyes are showing, shaded by the Stetson she nicked off a sleeping Ranger's head two hundred miles ago. She does burn, badly, and she likes the added layer of anonymity the scarf gives her. 

She'll like it even more when the scarf becomes a part of the tall tale that turns Jytte Eriksen, unnamed collateral damage of a madman's plot, into Jyn Erso, masked blue legend of the frontier. 

\--------o0o----------- 

In 1952, the first Mister Potato head is released. The first Kentucky Fried Chicken is opened, Anne Frank's diary is released to the general public for the first time, and the United States successfully detonates her first hydrogen bomb, nicknamed "Mike." The war rages in Korea, but the Lone Ranger and Tonto protect audiences at home. A polio epidemic rips across America, killing thousands and paralyzing even more, but Salk is right on the brink of a cure. 

And you can drive from Mexico City to El Paso in a matter of days, as Consuelo does when she hears the news of her Papa's passing.

They hold his funeral within the white-washed stucco walls of an old Mission church only a few miles away from the fancy house with the veranda that Papa had bought Mama just as the century turned. Consuelo's whole family is here, her son Victor and her daughter Luna, their spouses and their children. Local politicians wanting to associate with Victor, attach themselves to Cassian Andor's good name. 

And then other people, some of whom had connections to the family that even Consuelo didn't fully grasp. Her father could be gruff but he also had a habit of collecting motley assortments of friends, good friends, and while most of the friends of his epic stories had passed- the driver from Karachi, the soldier of fortune from Hubei, the monk- he'd made new ones. Soldiers come home from the war with pieces of themselves left behind in Europe. A reforming bank robber, a foul-mouthed priest, the lady at the tamale stand who's immigration status he had cleared up. Cassian Andor had a habit of seeing the lost and broken parts of himself in other people, and for whatever snide comment he might make about not wanting friends, he sure made a lot of them. 

The memory makes hot tears prick at the corners of Consuelo's eyes as she walks up to the altar. His body is laid out, surrounded by cala lilies and marigolds, the smooth lines of the flowers at odds with him. He's had the hard lined face of an old man the entire time Consuelo has known him. Deep set lines, crow's feet and wrinkles carved into his face far too young by sun and stress and hard living. 

Ma always said that those made him all the more handsome, the signs of a man who had lived his life proper instead of waiting in the shadows like a prissy city boy. 

Ma's hair had gone silver streaked far before her time, and Papa had said it was American silver to go with Danish gold. 

The memories are sour in the back of her throat. They were disgustingly besotted in a way that Consuelo has never been, but then again, her Da was good in a way few men are. Consuelo had had Raul, a dashing young revolutionary with an easy smile and pretty words and a wandering heart.And then there was Alberto, who changed his name to Jack and decided Consuelo wasn't American enough for him. 

As far as she knew Raul was dead. Jack had moved to Florida so it was almost the same thing. 

She stands at the lecter's stand. The priest is taller than she is, so it takes her a moment to adjust the microphone. She can feel her cheeks getting hot and sticky with salt.

"Cassian Andor was a great man. But more importantly, he was a good man as well. The best man I have ever known."

The audience quiets and stills at the sound of her voice. Even if they were not genetically linked Consuelo inherited his ability to still a crowd and pull an army. Unlike her father she could also breathe her words into fire in the columns of a newspaper or the pages of a pamphlet. 

Mama is in the front row, but her memory's been going for the last few years so mainly she just looks lost. There's a few moments, though, when Jyn seems to see things with a kind of blinding lucidity that cut straight to Consuelo's core. 

"For my Papa, good was not passive. Hope was not passive. Hope was a thing you did. Hope was a civic virtue. Hope was morality, it was strength, it was faith and it was love. For Papa, hope was not just the basis of rebellion, though it was that. Sometimes, hope was rebellion.

"He told be once that he'd thought he'd die before twenty. He lived to be ninety six. He lived to see two World Wars and to see his country rise up and revolt. He lived to see American consciousness turn the vaquero into the bandit. He lived to meet his great-grandchildren. Cassian Andor was born into a world without light bulbs and died in a world of Atomic bombs. The world that made him could not even comprehend of the world he would leave. 

"People have called Papa a hero, a guerrilla, a vigilante, a gunslinger, a terrorist. I don't think he'd object to any of those, untrue as some may be. Papa was complicated and scarred and good, and he was a lot of things and called a lot of things and he accepted almost all of them. My father accepted, but he did not apologize for the things that the world had made him. Call him what you want. Just don't call him an American." 

The audience laughs. The family members have a knowing chuckle and Cassian's well-known antics, but the strangers are chortling uncomfortably, and Consuelo has to smile. Just as her padre would have wanted it.

She tells a few vignettes about his life, funny stories that have had the darker bits scrubbed off, but all the while she feels like she's skirting and missing the point. Whitewashing him, getting rid of the darkness to fit in some view of the what a soldier, a Mexican, a hero should be. The model minority and not the complicated truth.

Her shoes click on the floor as she descends from the altar to sit next to Ma in the front row. She's surprised when a hand reaches out in startling grip to wrap around her own. 

Consuelo looks into her mother's still-green eyes and there's a kind of crystal clarity right now. 

"Your father would be proud of you." 

\------------

It's a week later that she visits her mother. 

It's in the back of their old house, now Victor's The room is clean and white, but outside the window. Consuelo sees a riot of Texan color. Inside is a bubble of air conditioning and medication. 

Ma is in the middle of the bed, wrapped in a familiar blue shawl. She seems impossibly tiny and frail, out of place among the machines, a living ghost of a time without electricity still alive in the age of the atomic bomb.

"Hey, Ma." 

Jyn's eyes flick over. "Connie!" 

"Ma." She smiles, relieved. It's luck of the draw rather she'll recognize her own daughter's face or not.

Today, she does. 

"You didn't have to come all the way up here for me, mija." 

"I've been up here for a few weeks now."

Consuelo drags a chair to the bedside. 

"You still have the necklace?" 

"Of course." 

Jyn fingers reach out and wrap around the amber pendant familiarly. 

"It always looked better on you." 

There's a companionable silence between them. Consuelo remembers when the necklace first became hers. (It was the summer of 1911 and Consuelo already had her rifle packed.) 

"You want to watch TV, Mama?" 

"Victor won't let me." 

The more traditional cover their mirrors and unplug the television sets, but Ma can't even remember that they're mourning in the first place so it all seems null and void. 

Consuelo walks up to the TV set and flicks it on. 

Immediately the William Tell overture starts to drill into her brain. 

"This is the story of one of the most mysterious characters to appear in the early days of the West. He was a fabulous individual, a man who's presence brought fear to the lawless and hope to those who wanted to make the frontier land their home. Assisted by his trutst India-"

"Not more of this racist bullshit. Get rid of it." 

Consuelo complies. The only other thing on is "I Love Lucy." 

"Sometimes we quarrel, but then? How we love making up agaiiiin," the television warbles. 

"Go find your father. It's his favorite fucking program again." 

"Go find Dad?" 

"Shouldn't be hard. The bastard probably just fell asleep on the porch again. If you can't find him just leave a jacket out and he should come." Jyn laughs like this is the funniest thing in the world. 

"I'll, uh, I'll find him." 

"Good. He loves all this funny crap." 

Something inside Consuelo has broken, and she can't stop picturing Papa's body, ancient and waxy and unmoving, and Mama crying over it.

Consuelo stands up to "find" Cassian, but Jyn sticks out a hand to stop her. 

"Connie? Open a window." 

"That will let the air conditioning out, Mama." 

"It'll let me out as well." 

"Pardon?"

"Just do it." 

She does, immediately regretting the rush of desert-warmed air that envelopes her. She walks out of the room, and when she comes back to check five minutes later, Jyn is asleep and Consuelo says good bye yet again. 

\----- o0o-------

The sunset is raw and red and brilliant and almost over when she walks out of the house. 

She pulls a cigarette and lighter out of her pocket and takes a long smoke. 

"One of these days we're gonna learn how those things kill us all." 

She turns and it's the nurse, the blonde part-timer from Alabama with the overly cheerful smiles and neat little hats.

Consuelo takes an extra long smoke out of spite. "I survived the Mexican Revolution. A piece of paper isn't going to kill me." 

"A pleasure to meet you as always, Miss Andor." 

She doesn't have the energy for pleasantries. 

"How's Ma?" 

"She's stable. It's a slow decay." 

Consuelo nodds. "How often does she ask for him?'

"Every day. Sometimes she remembers, but most of the time she doesn't and most of us don't have the heart to tell her." 

Consuelo holds out the lighter and the box of Marlboros. Nurse shoots her a look but does not hesitate to light one. 

"So she's your mother?" 

"Among other things." 

"I was wondering . . . ." 

"You're wondering why the world's whitest gringa has a brown daughter?" 

The nurse doesn't say anything, but she nods imperceptibly. 

"I was the daughter of a whore on a border town. One night I- I was around seven or eight- one night an angry customer slits her throat with a bottle. Ma was the deputy on the case." 

The nurse drops the cigarrete and hurriedly rushes to stamp it out. "I'm, I'm- so sorry, Ma'am. So sorry." 

Consuelo shrugs. She's found it best to be blunt about her origins, because in the long run it hurts less than weathering the comments people have hurled at her family for as long as she can remember. 

"She found me and took me home. Gave me a home. She and Papa- they're the family I remember." 

A memory hits Consuelo and she smirks. "Course, it was only later that I found out she hunted down the bastard who did it and slit his throat with a bottle herself." 

The nurse starts to cough. "When are you returning to Mexico City, Miss?" She seems damn eager to change the subject from revenge killings. 

"Figured I'd have to stay for the funeral." 

"He's been buried for days now, Ma'am." 

"Not his." 

It takes a moment for the nurse to catch on. "You don't think? Your mother? But you don't know . . . ." 

"I don't know shit about anything. But I do know that I've never met a pair of souls like those two. They've barely left each other for seventy years. What makes you think now is any different?" 

"She sure clings on to the blue scarf. Barely lets it get washed because it smells like him." 

"The rebozo?"

"Yeah, that. You think we can separate it from her?" 

"I don't think death can separate her from that damn rebozo." 

It can't. She dies peacefully in the night a week and a half later, and when they bury her it's with her frail shoulders wrapped in the faded blue scarf. It's in the same church and it's to the same carved altar that Consuelo walks to give her second goodbye in a month. 

When she stands before the audience it's the same people wearing the same starched, formal church clothes, the same twitchy children and crying babies and ancient relatives asleep in the pews in the back. Some of the same friends, but none of the politically aspiritional. Jyn made friends as well, but not in the same way. She didn't have Cassian's strange, quiet charisma, but she did have a kind of burning loyalty that pulled people into her orbit and kept them there. 

"My mother would tell you not to glorify the past, least of all her own. She'd say, in words not suitable to repeat in church, that the only thing worth glorifying was the future. She'd say that the dream of America is what she could be, that the worth of America is not America as is but the America we could make." 

Consuelo looks out over the audience. This speech isn't for Mama, or Papa, or any of the dead. This speech is for the living, and that means leaving out the smudges and the nuances that made Jyn Erso such a beautiful, messy, confounding human. 

That she had, in her own way, been an excellent wife and mother was true. And that fit within people's mental framework of what a woman could and should be. But there were so many other things about her life that didn't match that narrow binary of womanhood, virtuous Madonna or cunning seductress. 

There are so many things about her mother that Consuelo wants to say but can't articulate or knows the audience won't accept. 

That she was reckless and aggressive and undisciplined. That her relationship with the American dream and America herself had been nothing but complicated. That she had killed, and killed quite a lot. That some of those deaths were of innocents, that she carried some of those deaths around for decades. That after some of those deaths she had felt nothing at all. 

That she had been a woman of the law and a criminal fit to be hanged, a killer and a savior of lives. An immigrant and an American, and a wife to a man who was until his dying breath not. That she was cruel and that she was kind, that above all of it, Jyn Erso burned. 

But the sorrow makes her tongue twist and stops the words from flowing from her mind. 

So instead she says the simplest thing she can think of to fit the situation. 

"And she'd say to save that dream." 

They bury her right next to him, upturned dirt of his grave only beginning to settle. They have a shared grave stone, Cassian Jeron Andor and Jyn Astrid Erso (she's been born Jytte Eriksen and she died Gina Andor, but she lived Jyn Erso), and under the dates are the only four words Consuelo could think to summarize their lives. 

Esperanza

and 

Todo el camino. 

Afterwards she sits in the grass with a cigarette and a bottle of mzscal, taking swigs that would scandalize most of polite El Paso society and toasting the dead. She watches the soft clouds of pulsating orange make their way across the pure Texan sky- monarch butterflies going home to winter in Mexico. 

Souls headed home already. 

Her peace is broken by the sound of slapping sandals and a child's huffing breath, and she smiles. A girl with dark braids and a poofy, dirt-smudged purple dress comes into view. Juana, her seven year old grand daughter with a knack for trouble and a curious streak a mile wide. A difficult girl, but then again, wasn't that the story of every woman in this family? 

Consuelo pats the ground next to her. "Join me, mi vida."

Juanita plops heavily on the ground. In her hands are a browning bunch of marigolds she must have picked for the graves. She tears at the petals anxiously. 

"Is something the matter?" 

"Did she really do it?" Juanita nods in the direction of the grave.

"Do what?" 

"Stuff. You know, like in your speech. Stuff with horses and guns. Little House on the Prairie stuff." 

"She did a lot of stuff, yes." 

"What kind of stuff?" 

"A lot of things that I'l tell you more about when you get older." 

Juanita pouts and gives her best version of rounded doe eyes. "Is there anything you can tell me?" 

"Mmm . . . did I ever tell you about how she and your Bisabuelo stopped a dastardly villain? The worst bandit kind in the west?" 

"Like Lone Ranger?' 

"I do not think Oldemor Jyn likes that comparison." 

"But she did, right? Cause I asked Mom about how you said that Oldemor was the Lone Ranger and then she said that you were becoming just as crazy as she is." Juanita finishes her speech with the wide "cat-that-ate-the-canary" smile of a child who knows she has stirred up trouble. 

"Mija, I did not say that." Luna crests the ridge, which is an ordeal in itself as she tries to drag her two year old son along with her. "Apologise to your Abuela." 

"No need." Consuelo smiles. "In fact, it is I who should be apologizing. I have never told Juanita the story of how Bisabuelo and Oldemor stopped the most dastardly bandit king in the entire Wild West ." 

Luna rolls her eyes but she sits down neatly on the grass anyway. 

"Is it true? Did it really happen?" Juanita's eyes widen.

Consuelo raises her eyebrows comically, and Juanita laughs. 

"Maybe, when I am done, you decide the truth for yourself. All right, mi vida?" 

"All right, Abuela. Now will you hurry up and get started?" 

Consuelo digs under the neck of her own wine-colored rebozo and fishes out the necklace. It always felt unnaturally light for it's size. She rolled it between her fingers, watching the amber cast strange golden light. Danish gold, they called it, the only tangible piece of the Old World that Jyn had carried with her. 

Now it's a life life between Consuelo and her mother, and her mother's mother before her, and it anchors her as she steps into the incomprehensible seas of the past and begins the story. 

"The first time my mother died, she was seven years old." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up figuring out A PLOT, as well as the framing device I wanted to use. (I also remembered True Grit was a thing). Sorry if the 50's flash forward is confusing. I was just really obsessed with the idea that someone born in the 1860's might live to see things like commercial airlines and televisions.
> 
> I got very emotional writing about Jyn and Cassian's deaths as well. Very emotional.


End file.
